


Make It Easy On Me

by coloursflyaway



Series: Hartwin Week [7]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During World War II, Lord Harry Hart asks his nephew Eggsy, who he hasn't seen in years, to come and stay with him as his heir.<br/>What he doesn't know is what else he will find in the boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Easy On Me

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so sorry that this took forever - I planned to write maybe 3000 words and now it's more than thrice that and took at least twice as long.

“Harry’s a good man, that’s what your father always used t’ say”, his mum says and squeezes Eggsy’s hand for what might be the last time. “He’s gonna treat ya well, my boy.”  
Eggsy swallows down tears and hopes she is right.

 

His uncle is a busy man, that’s what the driver tells him who picks Eggsy up from the train station. He’d like to be here, but he can’t; there is business to be taken care of, urgent business, the kind which doesn’t allow any delays.  
Eggsy just nods and pretends to know what the man, Percival, is talking about. He isn’t sure if he doesn’t prefer it this way anyway, for his uncle, the man who saved him from the army and what Eggsy thinks would have been certain death, who asked his mother to send him to the countryside, away from London, which would certainly be attacked soon, seems like a figure too imposing to meet at a mere train station.

“Lord Hart asked that you would join him for dinner, though”, Percival continues, and Eggsy sits a little straighter all of a sudden, because that sounds just as terrifying. He isn’t sure what lords and ladies consider to be a normal dinner, but it surely isn’t cabbage and potatoes in the tiny kitchen in their flat in London, all three (sometimes four) of them huddled around the one single lamp, eating in silence.  
And won’t his uncle expect him to know all about etiquette and how to behave at a dinner table?  
“Sure”, he answers nonetheless, curses himself in the same breath, because that can’t be how proper boys talk, how they act.

 

A bald man takes him to the most beautiful room Eggsy has ever been in, with a four-poster bed and a carpet so soft Eggsy wants to lie down and just touch it forever. It’s going to be his room from now on, he says, and Eggsy knows that he is gaping incredulously at the older man, but he can’t help himself; it’s too much.

 

“So, Gary…” His uncle is tall and broad, wears thick-rimmed glasses and looks every inch the lord he is, imposing and confident and undeniably aristocratic. He scares Eggsy more than he wants to admit. “How is your mother? And your sister?”  
“Uh.” Eggsy looks up from his plate, fighting the blush that is threating to creep onto his cheeks, spill down his neck. “Fine. They’re fine. I mean, as fine as ya can be nowadays.”  
The man doesn’t reprimand him, doesn’t laugh, just smiles a little and Eggsy takes it as a good sign. “I’m glad to hear that. It’s been years since I last saw Michelle… or you, as a matter of fact. Which I am sorry for. It just seemed to difficult, going back to London, after Lee had passed away.”

A shadow flits over Lord Hart’s features, makes Eggsy remember that while he hardly has any memory of his father, there were people who lived with him for years, who still feel his loss.  
“And then, after your mother married again… well, I cannot blame her for it, but I can’t deny that it did feel a little like betrayal.”  
The other man stops talking, just looks at Eggsy almost a little wistfully; the boy finds himself nodding, because it felt just the same to him.

 

“You use the knife in the middle, the round one”, Lord Hart explains, after Eggsy has stared at the differently sized cutlery for a minute or two, trying to figure out which one to use for his fish.  
Eggsy flushes, expects to be scolded, but when he looks up, his uncle is smiling at him with eyes that remind Eggsy of his father’s on the single picture his mother still keeps.

 

Although it’s the softest, most comfortable bed Eggsy has ever lain in, it takes him hours to fall asleep, his head still spinning with the day’s events. He misses the sound of his sister’s breathing, the creaking of the old wooden closet in the corner of the room, his mother’s quiet snores.  
This is an adventure; this isn’t home.

 

The bald man, who led him up to his room, joins him at breakfast the next morning, and Eggsy is glad for it – his uncle is nowhere to be seen, and he has never been good with being alone. He introduces himself as Merlin, tells Eggsy that he will be serving as his teacher until they have found someone more suitable.  
Eggsy, who hasn’t been near a school since he turned fourteen three years ago, gapes at him wordlessly for the second time in as many days, unsure if he has understood him correctly.  
“I don’t”, he finally stutters out, heart racing because he has to disappoint his uncle already, after only having been here for such a short time. “I don’t know _anything_.”

A few moments pass in silence, and Eggsy is already mentally packing his bags when Merlin asks, “Can you read?”  
He nods mutely, and Merlin answers with a curt movement of his head. “That’s settled then.”

 

Eggsy’s lessons start the next day, three hours in the morning and three in the afternoon, on everything Eggsy never thought he’d learn, from military history over physics and literature. Merlin is strict, but doesn’t mind explaining things twice or thrice if Eggsy needs him to, pushes but accepts it when Eggsy is at his limit, scolds, but praises just as often.  
Sometimes, Percival’s sister Roxy joins them, and even less often, his uncle does. He usually doesn’t speak, just sits there and watches, but his mere present is enough to make Eggsy slip up twice as often, forget commas and how to multiply, the differences between iambs and trochees.

Merlin always sends Lord Hart, who Eggsy still can’t call by his given name, even if the older man insisted on it, a sour look, which only ever seems to make him smile.  
Once, he winks at Eggy after he has caught him watching; Eggsy forgets every word of Latin he has ever learnt in the matter of a second.

 

Eggsy has been staying at the manor for almost three weeks when his uncle asks him to stay after dinner is finished.  
By now, Eggsy knows which spoons and forks and knifes to use, has a closet full of suits and shirts appropriate for the new position he is supposed to fill, can name every European country in just under two minutes, and yet he feels as nervous as the first day when Lord Hart, who is starting to become _Harry_ more with every minute they spend together, leads him to the salon.  
He’s only ever been there once, on his first tour through the house, but it still looks as imposing as he remembers, all dark wood and heavy drapes, displays of mounted butterflies scattered on the walls that aren’t hidden by bookshelves.  
“Take a seat”, his uncle instructs, walks over to a trolley that holds different bottles of liquor. Eggsy watches, notes that Lord Hart fills two, and not just one glass.

“I will be going away for some time”, the older man says when he hands Eggsy one of the glasses, amber liquid sloshing around inside when Eggsy isn’t quick enough to steady it. “So I was hoping you wouldn’t mind entertaining an old man on his last evening at home.”  
His first instinct is to tell Lord Hart that he is anything but old, but Eggsy bites his lips just before the words come out. It doesn’t feel appropriate.  
“Yeah, ‘course”, he answers instead, tries out how it feels to smile. “Don’t have anythin’ else to do, have I?”

Lord Hart – no, Harry, he reminds himself, because it feels like he is talking to Harry now, just his uncle, not an aristocrat, not the man who saved his life – laughs, takes a sip of his whiskey. “I was hoping for that answer. Even if I have been told that you and Ms. Morton have been getting on quite well. I thought that perhaps, you would rather spend your evening with her.”  
“Roxy?”, Eggsy asks, not sure what else to answer. He likes spending time with her, more than with most people, and yet it feels rewarding in its own way to be with his uncle.  
“Yes, exactly.”  
“I dunno. No. I mean, I can spend the next weeks with ‘er, right?” Eggsy tries to take a sip of whatever liquid is inside his glass, feels it burn on his tongue, down his throat. He just about manages not to cough. “While you’re gonna be gone.”  
“Quite.”

“Are you gonna take Merlin with ya?”, Eggsy asks after several moments of silence, and Harry laughs, a bright, happy sound.  
“You wish, my dear boy. But no, I will leave him here with you, so when I get back, you will know all of Ovid’s tales.”  
“Spoilsport”, Eggsy answers, and basks in the glow of the smile his uncle gives as an answer.

 

“Gary…”, the older man starts, and this time, Eggsy is brave enough to speak up.  
“’s Eggsy”, he says, and Harry stops, looks at him curiously. “My name. No one calls me Gary, just Eggsy. So, ya could do that too?”  
“Oh. Yes, yes, yes of course.” Harry looks at him and his eyes are warm and maybe it’s just the alcohol which Eggsy isn’t used to, but for a second, just one, he wants to walk over and hug his uncle, say thank you for all he has done for him. “Of course, Eggsy.”

 

Harry is gone for almost a month and while Eggsy doesn’t think he quite misses him, he does think that he liked it better when his uncle was around.

 

When Harry returns, it’s the middle of the night, a summer storm shaking the trees outside and not allowing Eggsy to sleep. The front door clashes open and Eggsy sits up straight in the bed he has gotten used to by now, makes his way downstairs with a beating heart and bare feet. It would be too much to say he knows that Harry has arrived, but there is a hint of a hunch, bordering on presentiment, bordering on hope.

And it is Harry, in a suit which once might have been impeccable, but now is torn and frayed around the hems, his hair hanging in curls instead of being slicked back, yet his eyes are still the same when they dart up to meet Eggsy.  
His expression softens, as does his posture, and although Eggsy cannot understand what it is Merlin is muttering into the older man’s ear, he can hear Harry’s answer.  
“Nonsense”, his uncle says, “Let him observe. He might learn a thing or two.”

Merlin just sighs.

 

And so Eggsy learns about his uncle’s hobby, as he calls it, even if saving the world, and travelling through all kinds of countries to ensure they will win this war and not Germany, hardly sounds like a hobby to Eggsy.  
Still, Harry stays adamant about it, and Eggsy won’t argue with a man who doesn’t even flinch when Merlin starts piecing him back together, stitching up cuts and disinfecting burn marks, wrapping what feels like half of Harry’s body in white gauze.

“Where were you anyway?”, Eggsy asks after a pause, which he needed dearly to understand just what his uncle had just told him.  
“Sorry, Eggsy.” Harry smiles a little tired, but otherwise fond. “Classified. But believe me if I say that I am very glad that I’m not there anymore, but back home.”  
Eggsy does believe him, even if the answer is so far away from being satisfying. He doesn’t reply right away, but when he does, he means every word. “I’m glad you’re back too.”

 

The next morning, they have breakfast together, fluffy scrambled eggs and toast, a few slices of bacon for each of them. It’s a luxury, and Eggsy savours every bite, eyes fluttering closed in delight when he chews on the last forkful.  
Harry is watching when he opens them again, a bruise blossoming on his jaw and tinting it red and blue, but he looks relaxed anyway, almost happy. Without wanting to, Eggsy finds himself smiling.  
“When’s your next mission?”, he asks, and Harry sighs softy, leans back.  
“Too soon, my boy. Far too soon”, he answers, and Eggsy silently agrees.

 

After his lessons, Harry takes him out to the gardens. In this time of year, they are beautiful, absolutely stunning, the flowers in full bloom and the grass smelling sweetly, and Eggsy is once again amazed that he is here, that Harry wanted him here.  
He misses his mother, and even more so his sister, and he spends hours upon hours worrying about them, but at the same time, all of this still feels like the beginning of a fairy tale to him. A manor, new clothes, as much food as he wants to, and an uncle who isn’t distant and cold, like he imagined him to be, but a spy, and one who seems to want him around.

“You know, one day this will all be yours”, Harry says all of a sudden, and Eggsy nods, because it’s the only thing he can do. It sounds unreal still, like it cannot be happening and also it sounds impossible that Harry will die one day.  
“You don’t sound excited”, his uncle states after a few more moments, and Eggsy shrugs, doesn’t look at Harry.  
“’m not. I mean, I’m alright here. With ya. I don’t need to own everythin’.”

He doesn’t look at his uncle, just watches the pebbles beneath his shoes, skipping and moving with every step. It’s silly and he knows it, but Eggsy has always been too quick to become attached, too eager to love and too desperate to be praised.  
And Harry is making it easy for him and easier still with every time he smiles at Eggsy’s attempt at jokes, every time he listens to Eggsy’s stories without looking bored.  
“I’ll do my best to stay alive then”, Harry says lightly, and puts a hand on Eggsy’s shoulder.

It’s heavy and warm, even through the layers of clothes between their skin, and for a few moments, everything seems to be alright.

 

“How did you end up ‘ere?”, Eggsy asks and bites into the pear Roxy has brought him from the kitchen. The air is hot around them, summer giving one last roar before retiring to its September grave, and Eggsy longs for the touch of wind on his heated skin.  
Roxy is lounging on the grass next to him, her dress bunched up around her thighs; Eggsy suspects he should care about it, but he doesn’t.  
“At first, I thought Percy was just a driver or somethin’, but he isn’t, is he? Just like Merlin isn’t Harry’s secretary.”

Roxy’s eyes flutter shut; she gives a hum and answers, “He’s one of your uncle’s knights. That’s what they’re called, the agents of their spy organisation.”  
A pause, and Eggsy doesn’t dare move, because it’s so seldom that someone talks to him about this and he doesn’t want to let the opportunity go to waste, even if the pear juice is running down his hands and chin, leaving him sticky.  
“Your uncle is the head of it and since they are using his house as headquarters, Percival just decided to stay here. Not that Percival is his real name.”

“What?”  
Roxy doesn’t even open her eyes, just chuckles as if this was something Eggsy should have noticed months ago. “Of course not. Did you never wonder why all your uncle’s friends are called after the knights of the Round Table? Gawain and Lamorak and Lancelot and so on?”  
She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and maybe, to Roxy it is; Eggsy feels his cheeks heat up, his voice sounding quieter than he meant it to when he answers. “Not really. I never- I don’t know anything about those things, Rox.”

There is a pause, and Eggsy steels himself for what is to come – laughter, or even worse pity – but then Roxy breathes out an, “Oh.”  
She doesn’t sit up, just starts with, “Well, you see, the legend goes like this…”

 

That night, during dinner, Eggsy tries his best to reconcile the image he has of his uncle with that of Arthur, deadly head of an international spy organisation. It’s a dangerous thought, but a thrilling one, because Harry talks to him about going to town next week to run some errands, and Eggsy can’t help but wonder how many men he has killed with the hands he is pouring him another glass of wine with.

 

A week later, Harry is on another mission and Eggsy only realises how worried he was when the older man is back again three days later, unharmed.

 

It’s the strangest thing, but Eggsy wakes up in the middle of the night, the sweat-soaked sheets clinging to his skin and his cock aching in his pyjamas. It’s been ages since this happened the last time, and Eggsy is too confused, too tired still to wonder why he is thinking about long fingers and brown eyes when he slides a hand into his pants.

 

There are news of bombs dropping on London, wreaking havoc, and Eggsy is in tears the second he hears the news, begs his uncle to allow him to go back, even if only to see if his mother and sister are alright.  
Harry refuses, no matter what Eggsy screams and yells, how he pleads, just watches when Eggsy storms off to lock himself into his room.

The next morning, there is a telegram waiting for Eggsy when he comes down to have breakfast, saying in a few words that what is left of his family has survived.

 

“I want to show you something”, Harry says after breakfast, once that the leaves have turned red and golden, “I have talked to Merlin, and he has agreed that you can skip today’s classes.”  
Things have been a little strained lately, because Eggsy doesn’t know how to apologise for what he said and because Harry never again brought it up. Maybe he is the only one who feels it, but Eggsy isn’t certain, can’t be.  
“Yeah?”, he asks instead of answers and Harry nods, gets up. He is clearly expecting Eggsy to follow, so that’s what he does, up a staircase and then another, through a hallway he knows and then one he has only set foot in once, to a room whose door Eggsy doesn’t think he has ever seen.

It doesn’t look anyhow important and yet Harry’s steps come to a halt in front of it, Eggsy’s stopping a second later.  
“What’s this then?”, he asks when his uncle doesn’t offer any explanation.  
“Your father’s old room.”  
Although it should have been obvious, Eggsy never considered that his father must have lived here, must have sat on the same chaise lounge, ate from the same table, walked through the same garden. But now that Harry mentioned it, it’s so obvious, makes Eggsy shiver.  
“Can I go in?”, Eggsy asks and his uncle nods, puts a large, warm hand on Eggsy’s back, just between his shoulder blades.  
“Of course.”

 

“Ya know, I only have two memories of my dad”, Eggsy says softly while he brushes his fingers over the rows of books in the shelves – hardly anything had been changed before Lee’s death, Harry told him, nothing since. “One when I was about five or six, he took me to the park. My mum packed us old bread an’ we spent the whole day feedin’ ducks. Was the best day of my life then.”  
Eggsy smiles; the memory never makes him just sad, but never makes him just happy either.

His fingers wander over a few trinkets still standing on the shelves, down the wall and to a desk.  
“The other one… must’ve been older, just before he died. ‘e gave me this.” Eggsy reaches under the collar of his shirt, pulls out the necklace that feels like part of his body by now. It's golden, a kind of medal hanging from it, pink and white.  
He has never found out what it was for, but now he holds it out for Harry to see.

The older man takes a few steps toward him, his attention focussed on the medal alone, and Eggsy feels his throat constrict in the strangest way when Harry leans in, touches a finger to the piece of medal, tracing the rope-like curls and the ring around them.  
“Eggsy…”, he doesn’t say, but breathes out, a name like a gust of wind. “Your father didn’t give you this. I did.”

 

Harry pulls him close and Eggsy feels tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, even if he doesn’t know if because he just lost a memory of his father or because he gained one of his uncle.  
The older man’s arms are solid and warm against him, his breath stirring Eggsy’s hair, and during the past months, Eggsy has felt safer than he ever did in London, even if a war is raging around them, but he has never felt this safe before. It’s as if the warmth of his uncle’s body is washing away the tension and pain, grounds him.  
He wraps his own arms around Harry’s waist, and the breath he can feel against the side of his neck hitches.

 

That night, Eggsy dreams of brown eyes and all-encompassing warmth, of being held and being touched.

 

“I found your mother and sister a small house on the outskirts of the city. They should be safe there”, Harry tells him over breakfast, without blinking. For a few moments, Eggsy doesn’t know what to say, then words tingle on the tip of his tongue, _Why can’t they come and live with us?_  
But he knows the answer already, because his mother would ask more questions than Harry could ever answer, and so he settles for something easier, shorter, more important. “Thank you.”

 

Harry has to leave for another mission he won’t tell Eggsy about, and the only thing he can do is wish his uncle luck, hope that he’ll return in one piece.

 

He wakes not because of the sun tickling his face, not because he is feeling hot all over, needs his own touch, since he cannot have another’s, but because there are sounds coming from the hall, which sound like a fight. For a moment, Eggsy thinks that the war has found them, even if both Harry and Merlin have assured him that it won’t happen.  
But it isn’t the sound of bombs, but the sound of Roxy screaming, of Merlin shouting and bones breaking.

He shouldn’t move, but Eggsy does so nonetheless, pads on bare feet towards the door and opens it just enough to peer outside. There are men in the hall, dressed in black clothes, more of them lying on the floor than standing, and Eggsy’s mind can’t have understood what is happening yet, because panic is only starting to set in now, quickening his breath.  
From where he is standing, Eggsy cannot see Merlin, or Percival, but Roxy, who is wrestling with a man twice her size and as much as he wants to, Eggsy cannot just close the door and pretend that everything is okay. Not when Roxy is his friend.

Looking around, Eggsy finds the next heavy-looking object, a vase that most likely cost a fortune, and grabs it, rushes over to fling it at the back of the man’s head. He groans, stumbles, and Roxy can just step aside so he won’t bury her underneath his unconscious body.  
The girl is out of breath, but nods when she recognises Eggsy; she looks as frightened as she looks thrilled.  
“You alright?”, Eggsy asks, and she nods again.  
“Yes”, Roxy says, then yells, “Look out!”

Someone punches Eggsy right in the face, not the worst hit he ever received, but it hurts, makes his teeth ache and his jaw creak when he spits out blood and saliva.  
Roxy’s fist collides with the man’s throat almost the same time as Eggsy knees him in the stomach; he goes down easily and for a few moments, Eggsy thinks they’re safe, then gunshots rip through the air.

Ducking, Eggsy pulls Roxy down to, her breath and sweat slick against his neck. He expects another shot, this time aimed better, but when Eggsy looks up, it’s Merlin who is holding the gun.  
“What are you both doing out of your rooms?”, the older man demands to know, his voice angry, but softens within a second, along with his features. “Jesus, are you alright?”

Eggsy nods mutely, lets Merlin pull Roxy up, then himself. “Who were these people?”  
“I don’t know, but I will find out, and believe me, they’ll regret it”, the other man answers, and Eggsy believes him.

 

Harry arrives back with loud shouting and the door to Eggsy’s room almost being ripped out of its hinges.  
“Thank God, you’re alright”, Harry exclaims, moving closer with long strides. His hair is out of place, but apart from that, Eggsy cannot make out any damage. The bruise on his cheek is all but healed, but his uncle still reaches out and touches his fingertips to the yellow-stained skin; they’re so hot they seem to burn through Eggsy’s flesh and bone.  
“’s nothing”, he mutters, his voice still soft with sleep. “Had worse.”

Expression softening, Harry sinks down next to Eggsy onto the mattress, fingers still gingerly resting on Eggsy’s cheek. “You shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry, my boy, I should never have brought you into this.”  
He sounds all but broken, like he worried for days, and Eggsy feels his heart ache a little for the older man, but does his best to smile up at him. “’s alright, I swear, I’m fine.”

 

The next day, Harry sits him down after his lessons and tells Eggsy that Merlin will train him from now, not just in Latin and trigonometry, but self-defence, shooting a gun.  
Eggsy finds it as exciting as excessive, but doesn’t try to disagree when Harry looks so adamant about it. Instead, he just heads out to the gardens with Merlin after they have spent hours translating Ovid’s _Ars Amatoria_ , lets the older man explain how to aim at an old wine bottle.

 

Percival teaches him how to punch, how to kick, not like a boy on the streets but like a trained fighter, or at least that is what the older man tells him.  
He’s patient, almost gentle, and Eggsy catches himself wondering if he taught Roxy the same things.

 

Christmas comes around and Harry invites his mum and sister to spend it with them; it’s the best present Eggsy could have asked for.  
They spend almost a week drinking tea and eating scones, huddled around the fireplace, Eggsy braiding Daisy’s hair over and over again, watching her suck happily on the dried apricots Merlin produced from somewhere.

On Christmas Eve, Eggsy gives Harry as much of a present as he could afford – a small drawing of the house and its grounds, made with the watercolours Roxy borrowed him for a week. There is much more exquisite art around and yet Harry looks genuinely touched and the look in his eyes makes Eggsy smile for a week at least.

 

When his mother and Daisy leave again, the only thing which keeps Eggsy from crying is that there are ears rolling down his mother’s cheeks. So he hugs them goodbye and promises to write a letter at least every week; she nods and Daisy gives him a last kiss, then they’re gone.

 

New Year’s Eve rolls around and they celebrate it in a way Eggsy has never done before, with champagne and boiled ham, egg nog sipped out of warm cups when the last few minutes of the year are passing.  
Eggsy catches his uncle’s eye across the table, and although it feels like the worst thing on Earth, he can’t help but wish that nothing will ever change.

 

Again, Harry leaves and again Eggsy is left hoping and praying for the other’s safety, that he will see him again. Merlin seems to know, since he goes a little easier on Eggsy when it comes to translations, to mathematics and geography and instead pushes even harder when they are training.  
There are hours spent with running laps and punching sandbags, with sparring and push ups, and when the night falls, Eggsy can’t do much more than fall into his bed.  
He is glad for it, though, because some nights, it feels like the only thing which helps him sleep.

 

Harry comes back and he has a new couple of stab wounds, of bruises, and Eggsy can’t stop himself from hurting every time the older man flinches.

 

“Merlin has been telling me that you are doing very well with your training”, Harry says over breakfast and Eggsy goes from tired to beaming with pride within a second.  
“Thank you”, Eggsy says, drops the piece of toast he is holding back to the plate. “I’m tryin’.”  
“And it seems that it is paying off.” Harry looks at him, eyes fond and pleased, his gaze not wavering, even when he takes a sip of his tea. “And I thought that maybe you’d do me the favour of seeing how you progressed first-hand. Sparring, perhaps.”  
“With you?” Eggsy can’t help but stare, unable to quite understand what it is the older man is talking about.

The words make Harry laugh softly, a sweet, low sound. “Don’t worry, Eggsy, I’m not so old you have to worry about hurting me.”  
“What? No, that’s- I didn’t mean that. You’re not old. You’re-“ Eggsy blushes just a little, shuts up just in time. “I mean, I’m more worried about you hurtin’ me.”  
This time, Harry smiles, hand jerking as if he wanted to reach out but thought better of it. “I never would.”

 

It turns out that Harry was most definitely lying when it comes to hurting him, because Eggsy hits the floor three times in twice as many minutes, leaving him with aching limbs and a bruised pride.  
Still, when Harry helps him up, Eggsy lets him, gets into his fighting stance, almost hits his uncle twice before he is back on the ground, the older man on top of him, pinning him down.  
He’s not even breathing heavily, while Eggsy is panting, and it’s entirely unfair.

“Bloody well done”, Harry says, his hands like vices around Eggsy’s wrists but his voice so soft, so proud. Eggsy doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, but he accepts the praise nonetheless.  
There is a hand on his shoulder, another easily gripping both of his wrists, and Harry’s face is so close that Eggsy can make out the crinkles around the edges of his eyes, every of the older man’s eyelashes, the flecks of green in the warm brown of his irises. And Eggsy is captivated, cannot look away.

With every breath, the air between them seems to charge further, until electric sparks are tingling on Eggsy’s lips and cheeks, little prickles that seem to whisper closer, closer, closer. Fingers curl a little tighter around his wrists, and Eggsy’s breath hitches; he’s about to give in and beg for a touch when Harry breaks away.

 

Everything is cold without Harry’s touch, and Eggsy suppresses a shiver as he gives his uncle a small smile, gets up to head to the showers.

 

That night, Eggsy dreams of a broad body pressing him down, covering him with warmth, a thigh rubbing against his crotch, a mouth at his throat.

 

In the evenings, they sometimes listen to the radio, to music and to someone telling them that the world around them is going to be fine when the next sentence is lists of all the young men who died.  
Eggsy is always silent on these nights, sits and listens and thanks God for this mercy, for his life, for his uncle, who kept him from dying in the trenches in a country so far away from home.

 

“ _Pars superat coepti, pars est exhausta laboris… Hic teneat nostras ancora iacta rates_ ”. Part of my task is left, part of my labour finished. Moor the – no, my – boat here to the anchor chains”, Eggsy reads, words gilded with excitement, giddiness.. They have been here for hours, both he and Merlin pouring over books and dictionaries, but it’s finished now.  
His first translation, the first text that shows that he has learnt something, is worth all the effort both Merlin and his uncle make to teach him, and he couldn’t be prouder – it’s only one book of three, _Ars Amato_ ria, but it’s a start.

When Eggsy looks up, Merlin is watching him with pleased, almost gentle eyes, and it’s thrilling beyond belief, the thought that he has made him proud.  
“Well done, Eggsy”, the older man says with the soft, rumbling accent he has learnt to like so much, and Eggsy beams, feels like he is about to burst. “We’ll start with the next book tomorrow.”

Although he has known that they would, Eggsy can’t help but groan.  
“You’re such a slave driver”, he tells his teacher, but Merlin seems entirely unimpressed, just raises an eyebrow, looking at Eggsy with a mixture of amusement and fondness.  
“Nine o’ clock, sharp. Or I’ll make you build a pyramid while we’re at it. And now go and show Harry your translations, I think he’d like to see.”

 

 

Eggsy finds Harry in his study, a few maps spread out on the desk together with more folders and books than Eggsy can count. His brow is furrowed in concentration, but he looks up the second Eggsy closes the door behind him, the shadows behind his eyes vanishing a moment later.  
“Eggsy”, he greets, leans back a little. A small smile appears on his face, and Eggsy is still full of sunshine and happiness, grins right back. “What brings you here?”  
“I finished _Ars Amatoria_. With Merlin. Well, to be honest, I think it was more ‘im and the dictionary finishing it although I was there too, but still.”

Eggsy is still smiling when he crosses the room and puts the stack of paper on Harry’s desk, watches his uncle flit through the pages with nimble, elegant fingers.  
“This is amazing, Eggsy”, he comments, and although Eggsy thought he was on the verge of bursting already, Harry’s praise makes him flow over with pride, with joy, because it’s Harry, and every word he says means twice as much as anyone else’s. “I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, Eggsy is floating, flying, a blush appearing high on his cheeks. “…thanks. I tried.”  
“And once again, you surpassed all my expectations. I think…”, Harry’s voice goes lower, deeper, almost conspiratorial. “I think this calls for a toast.”

 

  
Half an hour later, Eggsy is sitting on the couch, a glass of Napoleonic brandy in his hand. Harry is next to him, talking about something, but Eggsy has long stopped listening to anything but the sound of his voice, the words blending together.  
He’s feeling slightly dizzy, warm, both alcohol and time having mellowed the excitement to a pleasant hum, somewhere between his chest and his stomach. And Harry is right there, warm and solid and safe; all he wants is to lean in and feel his uncle’s arms around him once more, bury his face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.

So he does. While it seemed impossible before, it’s the easiest thing now to just scoot closer and lay his heavy head on Harry’s shoulder, nuzzle his shoulder. He smells like Eggsy can remember, stops talking, but doesn’t push him away.  
Instead, Harry reaches up and puts a hand in Eggsy’s hair, strokes his fingers through the short strands. “Tired?”, he asks, and chuckles when Eggsy nods. “Should we get you to bed, then?”

Part of Eggsy is screaming yes, because his bed sounds oh so tempting, but the far larger part doesn’t want to even think of leaving Harry’s presence, his touch. So instead, he shifts his body until he can fit himself against Harry even closer, sneaking one arm underneath his uncle’s, locking them together.  
“No”, he mumbles, feeling his eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Then adds for good measure, “Stay.”

 

Harry stays, and Eggsy wakes up an hour later with his head pillowed on his uncle’s lap, Harry’s fingers still carding through his hair.

 

“You’re very close, aren’t you? Your uncle and you”, Roxy asks the next afternoon, relaxes against the cushions of the sofa. Eggsy should be doing a few calculations he and Merlin didn’t get around finishing, but he stops, looks at the girl.  
“I guess?”, he answers, not sure what it is that Roxy is asking in the first place.  
Maybe she doesn’t know either, because there is a pause in which Eggsy tries his best to concentrate on the calculations, fails again.

“It’s just… surprising”, Roxy finally replies, and Eggsy wonders what she wants to hear; he can’t decide, so in the end he says something which means nothing at all: “He’s a good man.”

 

The second book of _Ars Amatoria_ is easier to translate, as Eggsy starts to get more and more familiar with the new words and different grammar. He needs less and less of Merlin’s help, which seems to please both him and his teacher. It’s an addictive feeling.

 

Winter gives way to warm sunlight and budding leaves, and one morning, a man he has never seen before sits at their breakfast table, reading the paper. He’s got hair of the colour of sand, a kind face and a pair of sharp eyes, looks up when Eggsy walks into the room.  
“Mornin’?”, he greets, and the man smiles at him, rises to his feet, extends a hand for Eggsy to shake.  
“Good morning. You must be the nephew our Arthur hasn’t stopped talking about. My name is James, or Lancelot.”

Another agent, then, Eggsy thinks and shakes the other’s hand, smiles as well, even if still a little bit sleepily. “Nice t’ meet ya.”  
He wants to say more, wants to ask something, but the door behind him opens once more, and James’ eyes dart to the person who has just arrived, his expression softening.  
“George”, he greets, and Eggsy doesn’t know who he is talking to until there are steps approaching them, a familiar voice speaking with a crisp accent.  
“Good morning, James”, Percival says, and Eggsy remembers Roxy telling him that Percival wasn’t her uncle’s real name. “I’m glad to see you came back in one piece.”  
“I told you I would.”

They seem to be fond of each other, seem to have been apart for a long, long time, and Eggsy wonders if Roxy has yet another uncle she has never told him about.  
James steps aside and Eggsy turns with him, expects to greet Percival – George, apparently – but the older man doesn’t even seem to see him, his eyes fixed on the almost stranger. He always looks a little severe, or so Eggsy thought, but now his features are almost relaxed, the happiness Eggsy finds in them makes him look ten years younger.

Tension makes the air between them crackle, and Eggsy hardly dares to breathe, just watches, just waits, until it mounts, boils over and finally falls away when both men move at once, meet in the middle of the few metres that separated them, arms finding waists and necks, their bodies slotting together as if they had known how to do so for years.  
Staying feels like intruding, so Eggsy leaves, feeling a little lighter, a little happier, if only for their sake and not for his.

 

James seems to be here for a reason, not just to pay them a visit, at least Eggsy finds him talking to Harry two days later, both of them looking at a map on Harry’s desk. When his uncle looks up, he looks tired and stressed, but he smiles anyway, soft and warm.  
“Eggsy”, he greets, and beckons him to come closer. “Is there anything you need?”  
“Not really. Just wanted to ask if ya have some time to spar.” Eggsy feels a little bit sheepish, a little bit out of place, because James is there, watching him with obvious surprise, and Harry looks like… Eggsy doesn’t quite know how he looks, but he doesn’t quite like it.

“Unfortunately, I think James and I aren’t quite finished”, his uncle finally answers, smiles that apologetic smile of his, which makes Eggsy’s heart sink a little slower, a little gentler. “But if you want to, I could come by later and steal you away from Merlin’s care, and we could go out to the shooting range?”  
It’s not exactly what Eggsy wanted – he wants Harry to parry his punches, watch him flush and pant, feel his body hot and strong against his own – but it’s better than nothing, better than most things he could have gotten. He nods, and Harry holds his gaze for another second, then looks back to the map on his desk.

 

Harry keeps his promise and takes him out to the gardens two hours later, where they spend the rest of the afternoon shooting at empty bottles.

 

The next time Eggsy comes to Harry’s office, his uncle isn’t there, just a new pack of files spread out on his desk. He doesn’t really mean to, but catches a look at a name and a picture of a kind looking man and a name – Professor Jakob Arnold.  
Eggsy just hopes that he isn’t one of the bad guys.

 

It’s Eggsy’s birthday, and he almost forgets about it, too caught up with news of the war and worries about his mother, his sister, the way his thoughts keep drifting off to his uncle whenever he isn’t paying attention. But Roxy doesn’t, George and James and Merlin (whose name is the only one Eggsy doesn’t know yet) don’t, and most importantly, Harry doesn’t.

His uncle wakes him up with the sun, takes him down to the dining room. It’s a feast, which is laid out for him, that’s the only word Eggsy can come up with for it, eggs and bacon and black tea, thick, clotted cream, scones and crispy bread rolls. He has no idea how Harry got any of this, but he turns around anyway, a smile on his lips of the size of the moon.  
“How did you get all this?”, he asks, because he knows how hard groceries sometimes are to come by, with the rationing of butter and bacon and all the rest.

“That shouldn’t be any of your concern”, Harry replies kindly, steps closer and puts a hand on Eggsy’s shoulder. “It’s my favourite nephew’s eighteenth birthday, I insist on being allowed to spoil you a little bit.”  
“Your favourite?” Eggsy’s heart picks up its space a little bit at the words, even if he is fairly certain that he is the only nephew the older man has. “How many of ‘em do ya have?”  
“Just one. But that doesn’t make the favourite part less important.”

Harry is smiling, Eggsy knows that although he can’t see his face, but the smile is in his voice, in the way he shapes his words. His hand is heavy and warm and Eggsy enjoys it for another few moments before he pulls away, walks towards the table.  
The food smells amazing, and yet there is something that draws his attention even more than the different dishes – a small parcel, wrapped in blue paper. It’s been a long, long time since Eggsy has last gotten a present for his birthday, once that wasn’t food, wasn’t a new pair of socks.  
“Is that for me?”, he asks, which is silly, but it makes Harry chuckle and that is worth it.

“Absolutely”, his uncle answers, walks over and sits down at the table. “It is your birthday after all.”  
“Thank you”, Eggsy says, although he maybe should wait until he has opened the present, but then again, it doesn’t seem to matter too much what the little box holds.  
It’s a gift, from his uncle, and that is more than he ever expected.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”, Harry asks, making Eggsy think that he must have gotten lost in his thoughts for a bit, too overwhelmed by them.  
“Sure.” Eggsy flashes a smile and reaches out to take the present. It feels light in his hands, doesn’t rattle, and Eggsy enjoys the few moments of suspense before he rips away the paper.  
What he finds is a box made of dark wood, what he finds when he opens it is his uncle’s watch.

It’s a pretty thing, a brown leather band and a classical face, and Eggsy has seen it on Harry’s wrist a hundred times before. He touches it without thinking, a finger tracing cool metal and soft, work leather.  
“What-?”  
“You see”, Harry says, his voice calm and collected and sounding like there was nothing out of the ordinary going on at all. “I am late anyway, no matter what I do. So it seems only appropriate that you should have it, my dear boy.”

 

Harry leaves for the mission no one seems to want to talk about the next day, and Eggsy can’t help but wonder if he only stayed another night to be there to watch his nephew turn eighteen. He hopes so, but Harry is not there anymore to ask.

 

His uncle is in Germany, that’s the only information Eggsy gets for two weeks; it has happened before, and yet he feels more anxious now, as if he was expecting something terrible to happen any moment. Maybe it’s because Harry is right in the middle of it, somewhere near Leipzig, a city whose name Eggsy has never heard before, but which sounds like it is trying to swallow his uncle whole.

It gets more difficult to concentrate on the tasks both Merlin and Percival give him, and while he knows they understand and worry too, they don’t let him off the hook easily, demand his full attention, his concentration.  
More than once, Eggsy leaves his training with another myriad of bruises blooming on his chest and sides, the knowledge burning inside of him that he could have done so much better.

“Make him proud”, Merlin had said two days after Harry had left, and back then, Eggsy had nodded and promised to do his best, but now it feels like a goal he won’t ever reach.

 

Eighteen days have passed since Harry left when Merlin wakes him up at night, his eyes bloodshot and his hands shaking. He looks like he has seen death itself, and Eggsy knows what it means before the older man can say the words.

Neither of them sleeps that night, neither of them speaks; they share a bottle of whiskey in silence until the sun rises, and with it the rest of the house. Percival finds them, knows within a second.  
He and Harry must have been closer than he knew, Eggsy thinks when he looks the older man’s face going ashen, his eyes losing their mirth, their twinkle. The thought stings, because there is still so much he never got to know about his uncle.  
And now he won’t ever get the chance to.

 

Harry Hart stays dead for eight days and then rises from his grave.

 

The sound that breaks free from Eggsy’s throat when he sets eyes on his uncle the first time seems hardly human. It’s silent, broken, tastes like ash on his tongue and clings to his lips for a long time afterwards.  
Never would Eggsy have thought he would think of Harry as small, and yet that is what he looks now, small and breakable, half of his face bandaged and the part visible pale as bone, his eyes closed.  
Merlin had warned him and yet Eggsy had hoped that this would be like the fairy tales he used to read to Daisy, that his uncle’s eyes would open once he stepped into the room. That Eggsy’s presence would be enough to heal his wounds.

But it’s not that kind of story, reality is harsh and bleak and all that Eggsy can do is to keep his tears from falling, sitting down next to Harry’s bed. A few seconds of hesitation, then he reaches out and takes the older man’s hand, weaves their fingers together.  
He squeezes, but Harry doesn’t return the gesture, and in silence, in a room bathed in dimmed, cold light, Eggsy lets himself break.

 

Sometimes, Eggsy reads to Harry.  
It’s been almost two weeks, and yet he tries to spend as much time as possible in his uncle’s bedroom, which is stuffed full of medical equipment. Some of it beeps, some of it looks dangerous, scary, some of it doesn’t seem to work. But Merlin, and the young nurse that comes twice a day seem to know the purpose of every of the machines, seem to think they keep Harry alive, and so Eggsy doesn’t question it.

Instead, he reads. Sometimes from the thick poetry collections from the library, sometimes from the translations of _Ars Amatoria_ he and Merlin are still working on, sometimes stories. The Wizard of Oz, David Copperfield, The Picture of Dorian Grey. Grimm’s fairy tales, when he is feeling especially weak, when he needs a story that ends with the villains dead or imprisoned, the heroes happy and with their loved ones.

He still doesn’t know who the people were who shot Harry, but he envisions them as the witch that Hänsel and Gretel burn, as the step mother whose plans are foiled by the prince’s true love, the lazy girl that gets covered in pitch. It’s silly, and Harry would surely scold him for it (even if only gently, with an amused glint in his eyes), but Eggsy cannot stop, just turns the page.

 

Sometimes, he falls asleep next to Harry, half on top of him, wakes up because he thinks there is a hand resting on his shoulders. There never is.

 

It takes a month and a half for Harry to wake up.  
Again, Merlin comes to his room in the night time, and Eggsy wakes up at the first sound of footsteps. Dread is spreading out from his heart through his limbs, makes bile rise in his throat, because he knows what this has to mean. The last time, Merlin told him that Harry was dead, and that is what will happen again; he’ll lose his uncle twice in less than two months and Eggsy doesn’t know if he can take it.

“He’s dead”, Eggsy mutters into the night that has overtaken his room, even before Merlin can speak, sitting up slowly. Maybe this could just be a dream, a nightmare, horrible but something he will wake up from and find Harry in his bed again, unmoving, but still breathing.  
He expects Merlin to nod, to take him down to the living room for another night filled with drunken silence, but he doesn’t.  
Merlin smiles and says softly, “No, Eggsy. He’s awake.”

 

The rest of the night passes in the blink of an eye.  
Still in his pyjamas, Eggsy rushes upstairs to Harry’s room, Merlin on his heels, almost rips the door out of its hinges because he can’t wait for it to open.  
Harry is propped up on his pillows, still looking weak and frail, as if a careless touch could break him, and that is the only thing which keeps Eggsy from flinging himself on top of the older man. Instead of that, he stops dead in his tracks, still breathing heavily.

Harry’s eyes are on him in an instant, and Eggsy’s heart stops; he didn’t know he missed his uncle this much.  
Behind him, Merlin is stepping into the room, but Harry says his name and nothing else seems to matter. His voice is not the smooth silk it used to be, instead is rough and thin, like cold smoke, and it hurts as much as it heals.  
“I never thought-“, Eggsy starts, but doesn’t finish, because he doesn’t want to think of it, especially not now, when Harry is alive and awake, looks almost like always and yet so different, bandages still covering one eye. “I’m glad ya woke up.”  
“As am I.”

 

There are still some tests to be made, some things to be checked; Harry insists on shaving, and Eggsy doesn’t once leave the room, hardly lets his eyes leave his uncle’s form. It still feels as if Harry could vanish every second, as if just Eggsy’s gaze is fixing him here, and every blink is a risk he takes.  
And then, after what feels like hours, Merlin is satisfied, the nurse has packed her bags, and Eggsy expects Harry to tell him to leave, but the other doesn’t.  
He doesn’t seem to expect it either, just settles back in his bed and bids Merlin goodnight, watches the other leave, Eggsy still sitting in the chair next to his bed.

Silence stretches between them, the kind which Eggsy thinks would be uncomfortable if he wasn’t still floating, almost bursting with joy. His fingers are itching to reach out and touch, remembering the feeling of Harry’s hand in his, wondering if his uncle would squeeze back this time, but Eggsy just curls them into fists, keeps them at his sides.

The night before, he dreamt of gunshots and of being held down and kissed, and being here with Harry conjures up both images, leaves Eggsy’s mind reeling.  
He wants to say something, _Thank you_ maybe, or _I’m glad you came back_ , but Harry beats him to it.  
“I hope you’re not too disappointed”, he says, the tone of his voice one which Eggsy knows too well – dry but obviously teasing. “You almost inherited all of this, and then I wake up again. “

Part of Eggsy wants to break down and cry at the words – because he was so close to losing the other, so, so close – but he reels it back in, reminds it that this is a joke and nothing more, even if he can’t manage more than a wry smile.  
“Maybe next time”, he says, and Harry laughs softly, hoarsely. For a moment, everything is alright in the world.

 

When Eggsy wakes up, it’s still early, the first rays of sunlight slowly creeping into the room. There is a hand resting on his shoulder, but this time, the weight doesn’t fade.  
Harry is still asleep, his mouth slack and relaxed, and so Eggsy waits, takes his uncle’s hand after a few moments of hesitation and plays with his fingers, intertwines them with his, only to let their hands slip apart again.  
It might be that which wakes Harry, it might be the birds singing or the sunlight, but Harry wakes, blinking and stretching a little.

Their hands are still locked, and Eggsy feels himself blush a little, expects his uncle to pull away his hand, but he never does, only squeezes lightly.  
“I almost lost ya”, Eggsy thinks and only realises he has said it out-loud a moment later. It feels intimate, sharing his thoughts like that with Harry, and yet he can’t regret it, because his uncle is still looking at him with nothing less than calm fondness, a hint of sleepiness still slowing down his movements.  
“Yes.” For a second or two, Harry seems to be lost for words, then he continues, “And I’m sorry for that, my dear boy. I will do everything for it to never happen again.”

Harry drags his thumb across Eggsy’s knuckles, leaving a soothing, burning trail; Eggsy’s fingers tighten around his  
“Does that mean ya won’t go on any more missions, then?”, he asks, because that is what _everything_ would be, and he knows he can’t have that. Can only have whatever is second best.  
The older man seems to realise it too, since he sighs softly, says, “No. Of course not, but for what it’s worth, you have to know that I will always do my best to come back to you.”  
“…to me.”

The silence around them is breathless all of a sudden, tense, as if the whole world’s future is being decided between them, and maybe, for Eggsy, it is. He doesn’t dare to move, but Harry squeezes his fingers, looks at him, awed and confused and hopeful.  
“For you.”

 

They kiss because they have used up their words, because everything, gravity and magnetism and all the other forces Merlin has taught him about, seem to push them closer together.  
It’s tentative and slow, more of a touch than an actual kiss, and yet it seems to set Eggsy on fire, his skin tingling and burning.  
Their fingers are still intertwined.

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”, Harry asks, reaches up to fix Eggsy’s tie for the fifth time. “I could still send Roxy. I’m sure Count von Stauffenberg wouldn’t care if he is dealing with Lancelot instead of Galahad…”  
“We’ve talked about this, Harry”, Eggsy interrupts gently, pulls his uncle’s hands away from his collar, but keeps them in his own. He’s nervous, he won’t deny that, and the touch is soothing. “You can’t keep me here just because you want to keep me safe.”

Harry sighs, brings their hands up to press a kiss to Eggsy’s knuckles. “I know. But you can’t blame me for trying.”  
“Of course not.” He hasn’t expected anything different, wouldn’t want anything else either. It’s nice that three years and countless missions later, Harry is still as worried about him as he always was. “But I can promise you one thing.”  
“Which would be…?” Harry asks, just like he does every time, like Eggsy always does. It’s a ritual of some kind by now, and Eggsy knows that it wouldn’t feel right to leave without it, without stealing a last kiss from his uncle’s, his mentor’s, his lover’s lips.  
“I’ll come back to you”, Eggsy says, takes the kiss he is owed. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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